


Chaos, Yet Harmony

by vellaphoria



Series: the rest is rust and stardust [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Gen, clone wars au, violence against droids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: A dual-lightsaber wielding Knight, a technologically gifted Padawan, and an irate Jedi Master descend on Felucia.The Separatists don't stand a chance.





	Chaos, Yet Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> I have neither a reason nor an excuse for this; it's purely self-indulgent ridiculousness.

The droid  _almost_  reaches the alarm before his lightsaber severs its outstretched arm.

_Too slow_.

Three more slashes – neck, torso, legs – and the clanker is nothing more than a pile of scrap, edges still sizzling from the heat of the blade.

Several more just like it litter the hallways behind him.

Dick jams the saber into the alarm panel– slicing through it like butter – just to be safe.

He doesn’t bother disguising the telltale liquefaction of the metal. A blaster can’t do that kind of damage, but it isn’t like they  _don’t_ already know that he’s here.

That  _they’re_  here.

The measured stomping of metal limbs and mechanical joints echoes from the corner past the now defunct panel – reinforcements for the lone sentries he’d picked off earlier.

Dick shrugs off his robe, leaving him with the greater maneuverability of his tunic as the heavy fabric pools on the ground.

He draws his second saber, and the droids are getting closer, about to turn the corner –

Just as the first one does –

The dim lighting the Sepratists seem so fond of has  _nothing_  on the way his twin shoto blades cast the entire hall in an eerie blue glow.

_Showtime_.

The first droid turns the corner, stopping mid conversation when it spots him. Panic breaks their ranks, and his blades block a few errant blaster shots before the droids get their circuits together enough to remember their formation. Well, to mostly remember.

No one ever accused battle droids of being individually competent; these few long years of war have more than proven  _that_. A droid left of center breaks from their ranks – fear or faulty circuits, he isn’t sure – leaving a gap just big enough for him to use.

Perfect.

He calls the Force to him easily, using it to boost his jump.

The first droid hits the ground before he does, bisected torso smashing on the metal floor as Dick lands and rolls into the middle of their formation. And, really, the fourth form – let alone it’s two-bladed, Jar’Kai variant – isn’t a fighting style  _meant_  for enclosed spaces. But he doesn’t  _need_  to fall back on Ataru’s complicated jumps when he’s in the perfect spot to  _destroy_  their entire squadron from the inside out.

Which is exactly when they try to rush him. Their mistake.

Faster than most non-Force wielders can even  _perceive_ , he cuts them down, one right after the other. Sparks fly with each sliced metal carapace, the scream of his blades outdone only by the droids’ high-pitched terror.

He stands surrounded by a circle of smoking metal; the single droid left standing at its edge unable to choose between firing its blaster or trying to flee.

Dick would have gone for option number two, personally, but it’s always fun to see them panic when he deflects a lazar blast straight back at its point of origin.

The returned blast burns a perfect circle through the internal mechanics of the droid’s chest; right on target.

He steps forward, idly swinging his ‘saber until he’s close enough to decapitate the still-standing droid. Its head falls to the floor with a hollow metal  _clunk_ , echoing through the base. He resists the urge to kick it.

Dick picks his way through the wreckage of the fight, grabbing his robes as he goes. He holds them high above the smoldering metal edges to keep the dark fabric from catching fire.

_Again._

If he ruins  _another_  set, Bruce may actually deviate from their mission objective to murder him in cold blood, Jedi Code be damned.

Because  _somehow_  the Master of the High Council not only runs their meetings, but also handles the Order’s budget that  _you are singlehandedly running into the ground with your careless destruction of Temple property, Dick_.

He doesn’t put the robe back on until he’s far enough away from the droids to avoid  _that_  six-month censure.

Dick runs across two more squadrons of droids – quickly dispatching both, robes  _mostly_  intact – before he reaches the facility’s command center. It’s surprisingly unguarded for the room supposedly central to the Separatists’’ Felucia operations.

When he gets close, the door slides away with a soft mechanical whisper – he doesn’t even have to bypass it.

Either Luthor’s been cutting corners with his security systems, or…

Someone’s already sliced it.

He ducks inside, lightsabers sheathed to avoid giving himself away too soon. The room is cast in the pale glow of the security screens – footage of the clone troopers from Bruce’s regiment sweeping the rest of the droids – but otherwise oddly dark.

Luthor is nowhere to be found; the Separatist leader would have made himself scarce the moment he saw the battle turn in the Jedi’s favor. But the lack of operational commanders is… concerning.

Either the slicer beat him here and eliminated them, or this is –

His skin tingles, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

He can  _feel_  the disruption in the Force, can feel that someone is behind him as he reaches for his ‘sabers, shifting to turn and … stopping immediately at the quiet hiss of a lightsaber activating mere inches from his neck.

– an ambush.

The air is  _sizzling_  from proximity to the blade.

And how much attention can he  _really_  pay to the memory of his Master telling him that  _isn’t_  how lightsabers work when it feels like his hair is about to catch fire if his attacker doesn’t kill him in the next few seconds.

As far as Jedi deaths go, decapitation isn’t the worst.

He braces himself, waiting for the strike that … doesn’t actually come. The force shifts around him, losing its warning edge.

“Found you.” Behind him, the voice is almost a whisper.

Seriously?

Dick spins, ducking under the blade and catching his assailant off guard; switching their positions and using his greater reach and strength to immobilize.

“Truly, the Padawan has surpassed the Master.” The sarcasm is clear in Dick’s tone, and he can  _feel_  that eye roll through the back of the Tim’s head.

Using what little range of motion is left to him, Tim retracts his lightsaber, leaving the room once more in semi-darkness. “Please. It’ll be decades before either of us can reliably sneak up on Bruce.”

Which is true. Though he suspects that the few times they  _do_  manage it can just be attributed to the Jedi Master feeling bad for them. As the man’s current and former Padawans, they don’t stand a  _chance_.

“Yeah, but we don’t have to  _tell_ him that.” Dick releases him from the hold, letting Tim turn around and look up at him. He’s had a growth spurt since the last time Dick saw him, though he still looks like he’s drowning in all that light brown fabric.

For entirely research-related purposes, he pulls Tim right back into a hug to test how much of the space in those robes is occupied by the Padawan and how much is just cloth and negative space. The ratio is … concerning, but not without precedent.

Tim grumbles something or other about  _attachment_ , but accepts the affection anyway.

And they haven’t seen each other in  _months_ , so the High Council’s opinions on the matter really,  _really_  don’t factor into Dick’s decision to keep hugging the kid who’s as close to family as the Order lets any of them get.

He knows Tim has felt the distance too because he’s actively suppressing his more touch-averse tendencies; letting Dick holding him far past the point where he would normally try to squirm away. He even burrows a bit closer into Dick’s robe, letting out a small, contented sigh.

It’s kind of adorable, so he forgives Tim for sneaking up on him.

But … there is  _no_   _way_  he’s confirming that it happened in the first place;  _someone_  has to keep Timmy’s ego in check.

He doesn’t let go until Tim lets out an annoyed huff against the edge of his tunic.

“Come on,” he says, tugging at Dick’s arm, “I still need to shut down the communications array.”

He follows Tim to the central console, keeping an eye on the doorway as Tim toys around with the security system. As part of their Temple educaiton, they all have to take classes in basic slicing, but Luthor’s systems tend to reach a level of complexity that Dick  _really_  doesn’t want to deal with unless he absolutely had to.

And he  _knew_  he wouldn’t have to.

With the Master of the Order himself having the final say on mission assignments, it isn’t too surprising Bruce opted to call Dick in for infiltration and backup, if only to have someone making sure Tim doesn’t get  _too_  absorbed in dismantling the Separatists’ Felucia operation from the inside out.

Though maybe he would have been better off assigning some backup to keep  _Dick_  on his toes – something about the way Tim slices through code as efficiently as Dick cuts through Luthor’s clankers is inexplicably riveting.

And utterly distracting.

Dick really  _should_  be paying more attention to the perimeter. But. There is no _way_  Tim is still stuck in Padawan-level slicing classes; he looks like he’s almost as good as  _Barbara_  by now.

His small, devious grin makes Dick’s hands itch to reach out and ruffle all that thick dark hair. He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing.

Tim is still typing when the comlink goes off; he doesn’t bother to answer the summons, just smirks a little when Dick finally gives in and reaches for it. If one of them doesn’t answer it sooner rather than later, they’ll  _both_  be in trouble.

He flicks the comlink  _on,_ listening for the telltale screech of static and dying droids on the other end.

“Padawan. Report.” There’s no mistaking Bruce’s gruff tone on the other side of an introduction like that.

“He’s a little busy. What can I do for you, Bruce?” Dick answers. It’s flippant, but probably not so much so that Bruce will try to censure him. Maybe.

He is perhaps a little  _too_  familiar with Bruce’s disapproving grunt. “How long until he’s finished with the array?”

“It’s nearly down, Master.” Tim says, trusting the speakers to pick up his voice across the distance between him and Dick.

“Work faster.” Which means ‘good’ when it’s coming from Bruce. “Knight Grayson, what is the status of the facility?”

“Troopers are clearing it now, Bruce.” He can  _hear_ the annoyance in that pointed silence.

Very pointed. It’s a long moment before Bruce speaks. “Name and rank in the field,  _Knight_  Grayson.”

“Sure thing,  _Master_  Wayne.” He makes the extra effort to mimic Alfred’s speech patterns. That grinding sound may be teeth.

The transmission shuts off from the other side before he can be certain.

At the center of the console, Tim finally lets out the laugh he’d been holding in. “He’s  _going_  to censure you.” Tim says, incredulous, but mostly fond.

“Eh, worth it. You have about year of backed up coursework to catch up on anyway. Since we’ll be stuck on Coruscant together, I can finish teaching you Ataru and drag you to all the best bars on the lower levels.” Tim frees one arm from the console to elbow Dick in the side.

The impact isn’t hard, but it’s enough to disrupt his laugh into an abrupt, amused wheeze.

“And corrupting his Padawan is exactly why Bruce is going to exile you from the Order.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “Like he wouldn’t do  _worse_  to you if he found out about half the things you use his High Council access codes for.”

Tim coughs a little to cover his surprise, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge.

“Aww, where’s the trust, Timmy? It isn’t like I’m going to  _tell_  him.” He finally gives in and ruffles the Padawan’s hair. Tim squints his eyes in annoyance, but otherwise ignores Dick as he finishes doing something complicated with the code.

All at once, the facility loses power, plunging the room into complete darkness.

Tim activates his ‘saber, lets the bloom of green light illuminate his smirk.

Next to him, Dick draws his shotos, the light of two – though admittedly shorter – blue blades overpowering Tim’s single green one.

“Showoff.” Tim scoffs.

Dick grins. “If  _someone_  would let me teach his Padawan Jar’Kai, you could do this too, Tim.”

“Sure. But then I  _couldn’t_  do … this–” Tim’s free hand shoots out and up, repaying Dick for messing up his hair.

He gasps in mock-horror, blowing his bangs out of his eyes with a scandalized huff.

Between them, the comlink blinks in warning. Tim is laughing as he snags it from the console, secreting it somewhere inside his robes.

“We have to get going. The Separatists won’t defeat themselves.” He says, making his way to the door the power failure forced open.

“Won’t they?” Dick asks, staying close enough that the light surrounding them is more blue than green.

“Well…” Tim looks back at him, flashing a brief, sarcastic smile before taking off, running down the hallway like a youngling late to class.

Dick sprints out behind him, hot on his trail.

With the lack of enemies to fight or inconveniently caved-in hallways, they eventually slow to a jog, using their lightsabers to navigate through the darkness until they reach the main entrance of the base.

After lurking through the crushing shadows of the newly abandoned facility, breaking out into the soft glow of the grove of bioluminescent plants surrounding the facility is a relief.

Seeing the Master of the Order waiting for them, however, is something else entirely.

“You’re late.” Bruce growls out. His robes form a black hole in the starry horizon of Felucia’s night sky. They only missed their check-in by half a minute.

“Sorry, Master.” Tim demurs, switching from unsupervised-Padawan-set-loose-on-Luthor’s-code to humbled in about a second flat. Dick can empathize; a few seconds of that glare have cowed entire star systems and, even more unbelievably, the Galactic Senate.

Beyond the small grove, a cliff drops off into the writhing battlefield below. Squadrons of clones and droids clash with nothing but the occasional flash of lightsabers to punctuate the chaos.

Bruce doesn’t need to ask if they’re ready. Just turns away from them, sets one foot forward and readies himself. He will plunge into the waiting war zone with or without them; as if he even had a say in their decision to follow.

To Bruce’s right and one step behind, Tim readies his saber. The heavy cloak billows around him in the wind gusting up from the valley, dappled with the light of his ‘saber and the multi-colored glow of the surrounding plant life.

His face has gone impassive in the presence of his Master, but Dick has always been something of a specialist in the science of reading Tim’s concealed moods. It’s second nature to tap into the Force and sense the unseen thrum of his excitement

He reaches around the back of Bruce’s pitch-black robes to rest a hand on Tim’s arm. It’s bittersweet knowing the small smile Tim gives him isn’t one that he lets Bruce see all that often.

But Bruce has begun his descent into the valley and Tim moves from Dick’s grip, following his Master down the hill with a single, tentative glance back at his predecessor’s predecessor.

Dick’s return smile is encouraging –  _I’ll see you in the fight_  – and then the pair disappear, swallowed by the mass of warring clones and droids.

He walks to the edge of the cliff; the plane is  _seething_  with the ebb and flow of battle. Wide open spaces half cast in darkness, practically inviting Force-enhanced jumps and midair acrobatics. Dick draws his shoto blades, shifting into the first stance of Ataru as easily as he breathes.

He does not miss the oppressive training of Bruce’s Shien style; the utter focus on complete domination of opponents weighed far too heavy for him to  _fly_. His knighting, after Bruce had finally deemed him ready to attempt the trials, was the only excuse he  _needed_  to take up the new style and blades.

A good choice, and a style he is well suited for, Kal-El had assured him. Will probably assure him again, if they meet on this battlefield. The public face of the Jedi is much freer with his praise than the Master of the Order has ever been.

He wasn’t kidding about teaching Tim some other forms; the Padawan’s defensive-oriented Soresu may serve him well at the moment, but the force lends him enough intermittent precognition to make a more blended style effective.

And as much as Bruce wants  _all_  his Padawans to specialize in styles that emphasize their strengths, for all that he had Tim train with Jedi and darksiders alike, he still tends to think his method of teaching is the only  _right_  way.

But. Bruce has never been quite as good at Ataru as Dick.

A few of the troopers look up as he draws his blades - lending their bright blue glow to the orange and green of the bioluminescent foliage. The clones clear the area, taking one look at his near-manic grin and finding that other places that are suddenly better to fight in.

Their absence leaves gaps in the sea of drones. He takes two, three running steps to the edge of the cliff before the jump –

And he’s  _soaring_  in a powerful arc, letting the specter of his presence terrify the waiting droids before he dives into the fray.

With their command center down, the Separatists are regrouping, mounting a counterattack that Dick will never let see the light of day.

Tim is be one of their brightest Padawans; a rising star in the Jedi ranks set to be one of the Order’s next leaders. But the kid still has a lot to learn about combat and, as good as he is at preempting the enemy’s victory, when it comes down to ensuring their defeat –

Dick lands and twists, a swath of drones falling before his blades. Those that escape his range scramble over each other in fear, any hope of a return offensive dying along with their commander. He gives chase, clearing the way for Bruce’s regiment to move in and reclaim the battlefield.

– it never hurts to have help from one of the Order’s best.


End file.
